Comatose
by jilyjackson
Summary: Percy Jackson has been living in a coma. When he wakes up, he is shocked to find that the world of Greek mythology doesn't exist, and neither do the people from his past- namely, Annabeth Chase. So when Percy's Real World comes crashing into his Dream World, bringing him together with the real Annabeth Chase, will she be the same? And will he fall in love twice?
1. Doctor Peter O'Malley

**Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson, the cover image, or the quotes at the beginning of the chapter. Thank you.**

**Rating: T/PG-13**

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_Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future._

__-Lewis B. Smedes__

* * *

Prologue**  
**

**We all sit in a circle. **

We sit crisscross applesauce around a colorful rug, just like in kindergarten. I trace a shape in the rug with my index finger absently, my fingers brushing against my shoelace. Though it may look like a random squiggle that I'm drawing in the rug, I know that it's not. Far from it, in fact. I'm writing a name: the name that I will never forget, no matter how many people tell me that I should forget. No matter how many people tell me that I need to forget.

I look up, around my surroundings. We all sit in this confining room, and there is nothing but silence around us. After the years of phantom shouting and yelling, the silence is more deafening than the most bloodcurdling screeches. There are about fifteen people, all sitting on the floor of the room, all sitting on that same carpet. There is one man, sitting in a chair, looking down on us.

I've never met this man in my life. I don't know his address, or where he was born, or his life story, but he knows ours. I know his name: Doctor Peter O'Malley. I know his job: therapist. And, of course, I know why he is here: to help all of us put our lives back together. We're all here for different reasons, in this therapy room. We're all sitting down around the kindergarten rug for different purposes. He has balding hair, a potbelly, and a pair of old, horn-rimmed spectacles. Doctor Peter O'Malley, indeed.

"Percy."

I look up, startling out of my brief reverie. "What?" I say dumbly, earning a few chuckles from a group of kids sitting to my left. I ignore them. Since I woke up, I've met a few of those kids. I choose to let them be. It's better than the alternative.

"Hush, hush. Quiet down, now," Doctor Peter O'Malley tells them. "Percy, it's your turn. This is a sharing circle," he says, putting the emphasis on _sharing _as if I'm in preschool. "We share our feelings."

"My feelings," I repeat. I laugh a little bit, leaning back on the palm of my right hand. It claps down on the linoleum floor loudly, echoing in the small room. There is no sound but the ticking of the analog clock, right above the door that I walked through not ten minutes ago.

Doctor Peter O'Malley seems to sense my discomfort. "Why don't you start on how you're feeling today," he says kindly. "Or how you feel most of the time. How do you normally feel?"

"Confused," I say immediately. I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Anxious. Angry. Sad. Happy. Miserable. Ecstatic." I smile wryly. "That good enough for you?" I say, posing a question for the doctor in front of me.

Doctor Peter O'Malley nods clinically. "Very good. That's a great start, Percy. Now, why are you feeling those emotions?" I stare at him blankly. He seems to fumble around, rephrasing. "This is a _sharing _circle, Percy. Why don't you share? Why don't you tell us your story?"

"My story," I say. I look up at the ceiling tiles. There is a wooden ceiling fan up there. It looks to be years and years old- there is a thin layer of dust on it- but it is still intact. It doesn't spin, but just lies there, the laminate slowly becoming obscured with a layer of dust. Just like me, for the past five and a half years. "My story," I say again. After I woke up, I seem to have acquired a fondness for repetitiveness. I think I hope that it will make everything make sense. So far, I have yet to prove that theory.

Everyone is watching me. Waiting. Seeing what I will say. I'm not in the _sharing _circle because of something I did. It's because of something that happened, a long time ago. And I've got a story to tell. I may as well start here. With a deep breath, and a sense of foreboding, I begin telling my story.

"My name is Perseus Jackson," I say. "I was born on August 18, 1993. My favourite food is blue chocolate-chip cookies, and my most recent school was Yancy Academy. It's a middle school. I went there in sixth grade." I smile bitterly. "I am now seventeen years old.

"Five and a half years ago, I was hit by a car." Slowly, I move my right arm- my good arm- up to touch my left arm. "My other arm is prosthetic. It no longer works. Fortunately, most of the damage has been taken care of. I wasn't conscious for any of it." I take a deep breath. "For the last five and a half years, I've been in a coma. I've been living in a dream world."

"Why don't you tell us about your dream world, Percy?" Doctor Peter O'Malley suggests.

"My dream world," I say, rolling the words around my tongue. I smile. "Well, that's a long story. You see, to understand that, you go back to the time that I was hit by a car. It starts in a school bus, on a field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

I gaze at Doctor Peter O'Malley evenly. "That was when reality became my dream world," I say. I remember that day as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember Nancy Bobofit, with her liquid-Cheetos freckles, and Grover, with his peanut-butter and ketchup.

I finally finish drawing the name into the carpet. I know that she's not real. I know that she's just a part of my dream world, and that slowly, agonisingly tracing her name into a red kindergarten carpet isn't helping anything. Somehow, though, it just seems to help. I gaze down at the carpet, picturing the name drawn into the carpet.

In that millisecond, I see her face. I hear her laugh. I feel her lips on mine. I remember her smile, and being underwater. I remember the good things about her, and then I remember the bad. I remember Tartarus, and the river of fire, burning my throat. I remember watching her take a poison knife for me. I remember her yelling at me. I remember falling in love.

I look down at the name. In precise cursive, highlighted for only my brain to see, it reads: _Annabeth Chase._

The love of my life, still trapped in a dream world.

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**A/N: Okay. This is an idea that I had a while ago. I'm giving it a shot- or, a first chapter, at any rate. I'm not really sure if I'm going to continue with it, so if you want me to keep it going, review and tell me! The more feedback I get, the more likely the chance is that I'll continue.**

**Anyway...**

**Please review! Constructive criticism is appreciated!**


	2. Melanie J Baker

Chapter One

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**Time moves in different circles.**

For some people, a minute can seem like hours. For others, an hour can seem like a minute. Time passes with the power of perception, not the power of a clock. For me, time seems to pass slowly at times, and then at the speed of lightning at other times. There's not really any telling which it is. But the moment that lasted an eternity for me will always be the moment that I woke up.

* * *

_I blink my eyes open._

_A sky of stars is the last thing that I remember. The _Argo II, _slowly cutting through time and sleep as I rock to sleep. Now, I am not in the _Argo II. _I am not curled around Annabeth, the smell of her shampoo heavy on the air. Instead, I am in a hospital room. There are countless machines all around me, some beeping loudly, others silent. I blink a few times, taking into account the room. There are ceiling tiles above me- the same ceiling tiles from Goode High, I remember, but they look different. It's as if a veil has been lifted from me, and I can suddenly see everything much clearer._

_I struggle to sit up, confused, but find that I can't move my arms. I can't move my legs, either. I try to open my mouth, to shout for help, but my throat is sealed up. It's as if I'm completely paralyzed. I blink, trying to struggle, and I finally manage to twitch my leg. A nurse passes by my bed. She's pretty, with chocolate skin, burnt-sugar curls, and a sheen of blue eye shadow._

_ "__Perseus Jackson," she says, looking down at a clipboard. "Christ, kid." Her eyes run down the report. "You're not going to wake up any time soon, now are you?" She looks up, and stifles a shriek as she sees my green eyes staring back at her. _

_I glare at her, as if to say, _I'm awake, thank you very much. _I figure that it's the least that she can do. I am somewhat paralyzed at the moment. My mind starts whirling in different directions. Where's Annabeth? Where's anyone, for that matter? _

_ "__Jesus Christ," she says. "You're actually awake. My God." She marvels at me. "My first day on the job, and I see you wake up. Wow. Well, it's not going to be easy for you, kid." She whistles lowly. _

_I struggle to speak, and this time, I manage a rusty, almost inaudible scratch. "Mwherem amb Iha?" I say. I frown, my throat hurting from the brief effort. _Ouch. _That hurt more than I expected it to._

_ "__Oh, no." The nurse takes a look around the room. There are a few other patients beside me, all hooked up in machines like to me, arranged in a horseshoe position. "Kid, you're in the coma wing of the hospital. You do know this, right?" She seems to be reaching a certain level of panic._

_ "__Mnowah," I say, my throat still thick. "Mwhere'sa Ambabeff?" _Where's Annabeth, _I think desperately. The woman doesn't even seem to understand. I try to clarify. _"_Annabeff Chathe," I say. This time, it's somewhat understandable. The woman's face only seems to cloud over._

_ "__Kid, you're in the comatose wing. You've been in a coma for five years." The woman shook her head. "And I have no idea in hell who Annabeth Chase is." She just frowned. "I think I'll just go get my supervisor."_

_That is the moment that will last for the rest of my life._

_Tick, tick, tick._

_Tick, tick, tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick. _

_…__Tick._

* * *

Then the delusion is over, and I'm back to life. The realization just seems to hit me over and over again, each time newer and fresher. Each time, it seems to hurt just a little bit more. Each time, it's like I'm experiencing that _tick, tick, tick _for the first time in my life, not the millionth.

_And I have no idea in hell who Annabeth Chase is. _Since I woke up a month ago, I have undergone countless disappointments and challenges. There are no Greek gods. There's no Camp Half-Blood, no Grover, no Hazel, and no Frank. My mother is still married to Gabe Ugliano. I'm still living in a dingy apartment. I've missed five years of my life. Yet, with all of this going on, nothing hurts more than the realization that Annabeth doesn't exist. I keep on picturing her face in my mind, pleading silently that she's real, but she's not.

She never will be.

* * *

**Of all the things in New York City, Central Park hasn't changed much.**

It may be the only thing that hasn't changed. Since I went into a coma five years ago, an organization called YouTube surfaced. A device called a 'smartphone', typically referring to either an Android or Apple iPhone has been created. There is a thing called a 'tablet', referring to a small blank slab of computerized equipment. There is all this and more, but Central Park still stands tall. Aside from a few new trees and things, the park is virtually the same.

I take a sip of coffee from my Thermos. It sears my tongue, but it's a sensation that I don't particularly mind. It's just a little tinge to add to the world, a little bit of pain on the tip of my tongue. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Central Park. It's March, and the smell of spring is pungent in the air, almost unmasked by the scent of car exhaust and fumes from New York City's traffic. Around me, trees sway in a cool breeze. I stand up, plugging my earbuds from my iPod into my ears. I know what an iPod was, at least, thankfully enough.

Humming the first few bars of a song, I begin walking. This is something that I've made a habit of since waking up. Every time I begin getting overwhelmed by the complications of life, I lace up my second-hand, dingy sneakers, throw on a hoodie, warm up a Thermos of coffee, ride my bike down to Central Park, and begin walking. I don't really have any particular destination. I just look at the grass, smell the fresh mulch scent of wet earth and spring, and walk. Sometimes, it begins to rain, and I let the small drops pour down all around me, plopping onto blades of grass and sinking into the ground. I hold my head up high. It's a fresh spring rain, not a chilly winter one, and though I sometimes come back to my house thoroughly drenched, it's not a sensation that I mind. When I start walking, my mind starts wandering. And, when my mind starts wandering, I think of Annabeth. It's good to have something to bring me back to reality.

My shoes pound on the asphalt, skittering pebbles every which way. I think back to the latest group therapy session and grimace. Those are the only free therapy sessions that my mother knows of, and, with money as tight as it is, we can't afford for me to get some real help. All I have is Doctor Peter O'Malley, and opening up to him is about as helpful as not going to therapy at all.

I quicken my pace. Every time I start thinking in a negative direction, I make myself walk faster. Though the old Percy Jackson was agile- the one who could wield a sword like a pro- I'm not. The muscle that I built up in the dream world is imaginary. My physique is more like a wet, limp noodle. I'm now at a run, the sidewalk blurring underneath me.

Unfortunately, this is the last thing I should have done. My pace becomes so quick that I don't see- or hear- the bike on my left. Unfortunately, though I can't see or hear things, I can still feel them, and, let me tell you, a bike smashing into your back hurts. A lot.

_"__Shit!" _I curse, ripping my earbuds out. I'm now sprawled on the grass, the wet dew seeping into my sweatpants. Next to me is a bicycle, one wheel still spinning halfheartedly, and a girl. A very, very distraught girl.

"Oh, no. Oh, my God. Jesus Christ." The girl draws a shaky hand through her short, bright, bubblegum pink hair. "I am _so _sorry," she says, holding her hands up. Distractedly, I notice that she has a few leather bracelets on. They range up and down her wrist, all black, and most of them spiked. She's clearly Goth: with her black ripped jeans, punk band t-shirt, and various piercings lining up her ear.

I manage a weak laugh. "It's fine," I say. I assess the damage. I have a hole in my sweatpants, my hands are scabbed, the skin peeling off on them, and, as I reach up to my head, I'm fairly sure that I have a large cut on my forehead.

"Oh, that looks bad," the girl says, putting her face into her hands. Her bike wheel is still spinning, and, as I get a better look at it, I see that it's not exactly top of the line. The chain is rusty, the seat cover peeling, and there's almost no rubber left on the handlebars. That, if nothing else, is enough to make me sympathize.

I laugh shakily. "In a hurry to go somewhere?"

"Kind of," the girl admits. "I was supposed to be at work twenty minutes ago, and I wasn't really paying attention to where I'm going. I am so, _so _sorry." Her eyes blink up at me, and her tone is rueful. "My name's Melanie, by the way." She sticks out her hand.

For a moment, I look down at it, with the black leather wrist cuffs, fishnet glove, and black fingernails. Then I grin, sticking out my own hand. "Percy. Greek, not British."

Melanie laughs unexpectedly. "Well, Percy, Greek-not-British, I really am sorry about this whole thing. I wasn't really looking where I was going. To tell you the truth, it's not even my bike. It's my boyfriends." She bites her black lips. "I really hope I didn't damage the bike."

I laugh shortly. Walking over, I pick up the bike. Swiftly, I take a good look at it. "I don't think so," I say, my eyes cryptic. "It's pretty beat-up in the first place, at any rate, so I doubt that it's in much worse shape."

"Really? How do you know?" Melanie looks at me anxiously.

"My mom once dated this guy who ran a bike shop," I tell her. My memories go back to fourth-grade afternoons spent at Cyclist Pro Shop. I helped Don, my mother's brief boyfriend, work on bikes. He was the last boyfriend before Gabe. From him, I learned more than I ever wanted- or want- to know about bikes.

"Oh, thank God," Melanie says. She takes the bike from me, examining it herself a bit. She adjusts the empty, rusty bike basket a bit, taking a deep breath. She swings one leg over the bike, and turns back to me. A small smile edges its way onto her face. "Thank you," she says. "Really. And I really am sorry."

"Don't worry about it, really," I tell her. "Just- try not to run over anyone else, okay?"

"Yeah. Sure." Melanie smiles, and then begins to pedal, her bike speeding down the pavement. A few people have to dash to get out of her way, and with Melanie's wobbly trail, it's evident that she doesn't really own a bike. I look down, stuffing my hands in my pockets.

Suddenly, my vision is drawn to a glint off to the side. My vision zeroing in on it, I crouch next to it. It's a book- and not just any book. It appears to be a college textbook, one of the really expensive hardback ones. _It must be Melanie's, _I think. I turn around. "Melanie!" I shout. Unfortunately, she's already gone.

I grimace, turning down to the book. I flip over the front cover, and start at what I see. In neat, precise, curvy handwriting, a phrase is written.

_Melanie J. Baker, _it reads. _619-9003._

It's her name and phone number.

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**A/N: CLIFFHANGER! **

**Anyway... I'm back from hiatus. I'll be updating this fairly quickly, considering the shortness of the chapters, but I can't promise anything. I'll just try my best. Thanks to everyone who reviewed: please do it again! It makes my day. Really. :)**


	3. The Karma Bouncer

Chapter Two

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**The grass is always greener.**

This is a saying that my mother has quoted at me time and time again. 'The grass is always greener, Percy,' she will say, her voice gently reprimanding. 'Try looking at it from a different angle, and you'll see that it's just the same old shade of green, a little bit yellowed around the edges. Just look real hard, and you'll get it. I have faith in you.'

At first, I listened to her. I took her advice into hand, looking at my Real World bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Then, of course, life happened. I got placed into middle school, where my academic weaknesses could be met. I got my prosthetic arm after being told there was nothing they could do to fix it. I became the outcast, and, as everyone knows, no one wants to be friends with an outcast.

That is one of the many things that I miss about my Dream World. Before, when I became sad, or depressed, I had Grover, Frank, or Hazel to cheer me up, among others. I'm not even going to go to Annabethland. She could have cheered me up better than anyone else. But she doesn't exist.

One day, when I came home from school, I got a good grade on a science test. I rushed over to my phone, excited, the words '_Grover, guess what?' _ready to be typed, right on my fingertips. Then, I scrolled through my contacts, and realized that I had none. There certainly wasn't any Grover. There isn't now, and there wasn't then.

I miss Grover. I will always miss him. I will miss his nervous digestion of tin cans, his love of apples, of the wild. I will miss having all of my friends, but even now, even in the Real World, there's nothing that can quite compare to having an empathy link with a satyr.

Especially if that satyr is your best friend.

* * *

**Numbers have never been my strong suit.**

I have dyslexia. It's not the dyslexia that I had in my Dream World, either; the one that made my brain hardwired for ancient Greek. It's just regular dyslexia. Words and letters- English and Greek alike- seem to float off the page, dancing in the wind like miniature snowflakes on a brisk, swift, windy winter day. Numbers are no exception to the rule. Just like letters and words, they swirl around. To this day, at seventeen years old, I still can't tell the difference between a six and a nine. To me, they look identical.

Yet, somehow, in the midst of all the mumbo-jumbo mess in my brain, I have cleared a shelf for a little bit of number knowledge. Of course, it's not for the typical numbers that one might expect. It's not the Pythagorean Theorem, it's not the countless algorithms in my math class; it's not how to calculate Chaos Theory. It's something else entirely, and I'm fairly certain that Mrs. Dodds would roll over in her nonexistent life and die if she knows what I finally memorized.

It's a phone number. Seven digits, written in Melanie J. Baker's handwriting. 619-9003. The textbook has been staring at me from the kitchen table for the past half-hour, watching me, forever waiting to judge me. I know that I should call the number. It's just been sitting in my apartment for the past three days, and I know that Melanie J. Baker will probably want it back.

I sigh, looking at my calculator. It's Friday, and after a long week of attempting eighth-grade level studies, my brain feels like it's about to implode on itself. It's not the best time to be doing anything, and yet, the prospect of having an actual errand to run is an appealing one.

Today, my mother will be working at her third part-time job at Dunkin' Donuts until twelve am. She will return home, smelling of convenience store cigarettes and spilled coffee. Gabe is at a poker party, gambling away all of our money or spending it on beer cans and cheap cigars.

This is enough to get me up from the ratty old couch. Since I woke up, one of the things that I miss most are having friends. I'm just the seventeen year-old kid still in middle school, an outcast in the world of _The Outsiders, The Giver, _and more classic novels that I have no desire to read.

For the past few weeks, every Saturday, I either sit down on our couch, turn on our box television, irk Gabe with the television bills, or I walk in the park, sipping coffee at night. I learned early on that the park is a morning thing, though. Central Park is not a place you want to be in the nighttime.

I walk over swiftly to the telephone and pick it up. I hesitate, the sound of the dial tone a constant chafe on my nerves. _Deep breath, _I told myself. My prosthetic arm hangs from my side limply. Quickly, I punch in numbers. 619-9003. Holding my breath, I push the _talk button, _and wait for the phone to ring.

Six. That is how many rings it takes for Melanie to pick up. With every added ring, I sweat a little more, curse a little more, and tremble a little more. It seems as if I'm more anxious about this phone business than I care to think. Then, all of a sudden, the wait is over. Melanie answers her phone.

"Yello?" she shouts into the phone. There is music in the background, a solid _thump, thump, thump _of repetitive club music that hasn't changed since the mid-nineties. "Oh, God. Is that you, Jake? It had better be, because I swear, if you're late again, Sam's gonna kick your ass."

"Um," I say, unsure of how to respond to that. The word 'no' is poised on the tip of my tongue, ready to be said, but I force it down.

Melanie sighs. "Jesus Christ," she continues to yell into the phone. "For once in your life, Jake, stop sleeping around and get your own phone, for God's sake. This is getting ridiculous. Oh, no. Carly! That's not where the food goes! It goes _on _the table, not under! It's not rocket science."

"Who's Carly?" I say, the first words that I have been able to fit in to Melanie's rapid-fire progression of words.

"Carly? The new helper? My God. You have the memory of a goldfish, you really do." She swears, and there is a clatter amidst the club music, as if she tripped over something. "Look, Jake, if you forgot the directions _again, _I'll give you a free pass, but you better have a damn good reason."

"But-" I interrupt, trying to force myself into the conversation.

It doesn't work. "No buts, Jake! This is the third time in two weeks. We've only had four gigs. A one-out-of-four consistency rate isn't exactly impressive, for God's sake." She swears again. "No, Carly, it doesn't go under _that _table, either. It goes on top. It's not a complicated thing to understand, for Chrissakes."

"No, really, I'm not-" I start to say.

"Shut it, Jake, and listen to me. If you're not here in the next ten minutes, you're getting fired. Sam's already about to blow her top. The times of Second Chances are over. _No, _Carly! You do not put the platter on top of the cake stand! The cake stand is for the cake!" She curses. "Okay. I've gotta go. I better see you soon, Jake. Remember: Seventh Street, downtown, a big club called Karma. You can't miss it. You can hear the music from a mile away." She snorts. "Ten minutes. Don't forget." And, with that, she hung up, our conversation confusingly brief.

I bite my lip and redial the number. The voice was definitely Melanie's- I recognize her blatant statement and honesty, with her slightly hoarse voice- but I'm not sure who Carly or Jake are. I remember Melanie saying that she had a boyfriend, but I don't think that it's Jake, if he sleeps around.

The phone rings several time, but it goes to voicemail. _"Hello, this is Melanie. If you're the cops, I have a good alibi. If you're David, love you, honey, leave a message. If you're my family, I'll be changing my number soon. If you're my work, then I'll be there in a couple of minutes, I swear. If you're my friend, don't abuse the voicemail box. Leaving messages is a privilege, not a right. And, if you're a stranger, then don't leave a message. It'll just go straight to trash anyway. So, yeah." _There is a brief silence, and then a long beep.

I end the call before I can leave a message. I'm not sure that Melanie would take my message, considering she thought that my number was a girl's number that the guy named Jake had been sleeping around with. I think back to the name 'David'. That is probably her boyfriend, I reflect.

I sigh resignedly. What did she say the address to the club was? _Seventh Street, downtown, a big club called Karma. You can't miss it. You can hear the music from a mile away. _Well, Seventh Street isn't too far from a subway stop that I know of.

I glance at our box TV. I can stay here, watching reruns of _How I Met Your Mother, Full House, _and _Will and Grace. _I can order a pizza, eat a few slices, drink some Dr. Pepper, and finally collapse asleep on the couch. I can take a walk in the park, whilst avoiding all the sketchy types who hang out in Central Park at night. I can wake up, being yelled at by Gabe for abusing the TV rights, or get yelled at by my mother for walking alone in the park at night. I can do this, while lamenting about my lack of friends.

Or, I think, looking at the shiny hardback textbook, I can go to Seventh Street, downtown, to a big club called Karma, where I can hear the music from a mile away. I smile briefly at this idea, and grab my rucksack from where it's hung up on the back of a chair. Stuffing the college textbook into it, I smile.

Seventh Street, here I come.

* * *

**I hear the club before I see it.**

The sound resonates in my ear, the solid _thump, thump, thump _of the repetitive dance music. It's as if the club has a heartbeat, and all of the dancers inside are no more than cells, floating through the body of the club. _Thump, thump, thump. _Every once in a while, the music will change rhythms, and the heartbeat changes. _Boom-da, boom-da, boom-da. Shaka, shaka, shaka. Ka-THUMP. Ka-THUMP. Ka-THUMP. _Thought the heartbeat changes, it's always there. Never once is there silence.

I feel the pulse of the club. It reverberates through the ground, sending shockwaves to me. Perhaps it's not quite so imminent, but in the warehouse-lined Seventh Street, where quiet, snobby fashion models walk in six-inch heels with their noses turned up, it's nice to concentrate on something. The music is like an anchor, tethering me down to the ground. Since I woke up, it's like I've been floating. I'm now only a few inches from the ground, and nearly touching it with my fingertips.

Behind me, a group of boys and girls are together, their arms around each other. They're smiling and laughing, and I can hear the high-pitched chatter that only a group of girls can make. It's not really a conversation- it's just a continuation of general laughs, hand gestures, high-pitched '_oh'_ noises, and mindless words. It's accompanied by the occasional grunt from a guy. I feel a pang. Once upon a time, in my Dream World, I could have been one of them. Now I'm just a lonely guy walking the street with a prosthetic arm, my rucksack slung over my shoulder, a stranger's textbook in the bag.

The sight of the club jars me from my thoughts. Melanie's right: there's no way that anyone could miss it. There's a long line of at least a hundred people, and a tall, imposing bouncer with ivory skin, ebony eyes, and slicked hair. I glance at the line, seeing the drunk girls in short dresses, nerd guys hoping to get a few hits, and the occasional cool guy, actually wanting to dance in a club.

I sigh. Though I may not know much about clubs, I at least know enough that the line will take an hour, maybe more. I've nothing better to do, but I don't fancy the idea of standing in line for eighty minutes. I consider something. Melanie is clearly working for someone named 'Sam', whoever that is. I wonder if I can just drop off the textbook and go. That's why I came here, after all, isn't it?

As soon as I pose the question in my mind, I know that I'm not being honest with myself. I came to the club because I was lonely. There are easy ways to get in contact with Melanie. I could have texted her, or left her a voicemail- despite my crappy instincts, there's a good chance that she'll listen. I came here because I wanted to make friends, and right now, Melanie J. Baker is the only prospect I've got.

I cut to the front of the line anyway. Melanie could get me in without having to make me wait in this atrocious line. I'd rather try and ail rather than not try at all and never know. It's like that one Latin saying Annabeth used to quote at me: _Carpe diem. Seize the day. _Live life to the fullest. Of course, I'm not sure if a figment of my imagination was encouraging me to smuggle myself into a club…

Oh, no. I don't have ID. I swear under my breath. Forget the line- if Melanie's not here, and doesn't give me a pass, then I'm stuck out here in the cold, completely screwed. _Well, that settles it, then, _I think gloomily. _Damn. _

Swiftly, I walk up to the bouncer. Once I reach him, I realize how ridiculously tall he is. I'm not short- I'm six foot, one inches- but this man is easily a foot taller than me. I swallow. "Hello," I say, my voice coming out squeaky.

"Hmph," the bouncer says. "Back of the line for you, buddy. And while you're at it, I might wanna work on your poker face for your fake ID." He rolls his eyes. "Wasn't born yesterday. Jesus. Kids gimme no credit."

I clear my throat nervously. "That's the thing. I'm not actually here to get _in _the club. I'm actually here to drop something off. And… er… work. Yeah. Work." I know that I'm babbling, and incredibly sketchy, and the bouncer seems to know it, too.

"Work?" The bouncer arches an eyebrow. "Really."

"Really," I say. "I'm here with Melanie Baker. And Sam, and… uh… Carly… and Jake, if he's arrived yet. The lazy bastard," I add for good measure, hoping that the bouncer is familiar with the crowd.

Luckily for me, he seems to be familiar. "Melanie Baker, Sam Stocks, Carly Simmons, and Jake Baker? Really. Well, then," he says. "You can go hit the road, 'cuz I know they ain't expecting anybody else tonight. They're nearly overstocked as it is. They're only making a fuss about Jake 'cuz he likes to laze around. Nice try, though."

"No. You don't understand!" I'm resorting to my own excuse to myself now. I open up my rucksack hurriedly, letting my bad arm hang limply at my side. "See this? It's a college textbook. _Studies of a Classical Era. _They cost a lot of money, right?" I grin, knowing that I've got him hooked now.

The bouncer's face clears. "Oh, sure. My sister done go to college, and she's got about six hundred bucks in textbook fees alone. What's that got to do with anything, though?"

I flip open the cover. "This is Melanie Baker's. She kind of… well, she ran me over her bike when I was walking in Central Park, and she was in a hurry, so Melanie left her textbook behind. See?" I point to the phone number and name in her neat, precise script.

The bouncer looks at me inquisitively. "Look, kid," he finally says resignedly. "You did a great job putting on a show. And if it's not a show- well, sorry about your luck. But I can't get you in the club. It's against the law, unless you've got a damn good fake ID. In which case, you get five minutes."

I think about this for a minute. "What if we just _pretend _I have a fake ID?"

"Nope." The bouncer shakes his head. "Thing is, if the cops come busting down the door- which they do, every once in a while- I need to be able to plead innocence. Long as you've got a fake ID and a good reason, you get five minutes, and then I haul you out." He shrugs. "Sorry."

I run a hand through my hair. "Please," I beg. "Honest. Can you just get Melanie to come out here, or something? I just need to give her this. The textbooks are expensive. I don't want her to be out more than a few bucks."

"Well, then you can contact her some other time. I've tried to be nice, kid, but if you keep this up, I'm gonna have to toss you. Sorry." The bouncer doesn't sound particularly sorry, and I grate my teeth together.

I sigh, knowing the end of the line when I see it. There's no way that I'm getting into the club, even for five minutes. I need a fake ID, apparently, and I don't even know where to start when making or purchasing one. I don't even know what I would say if I acquire one. 'Here's a fake ID, now let me in?' Somehow, I don't think that will fly with the bouncer. Or anyone in general. Ever.

I turn around, hanging my head. "Damn," I mutter under my breath. That plan is thwarted. I'm starting to wonder whether or not _Will and Grace _is worse than this. Seeing as how I've come down here for absolutely nothing, I'm inclined to think that the outdated sitcom is still better.

"_Percy_? Percy Greek-not-British?"

I whirl around, and a slow smile spreads across my face as I see who it is, standing a few feet outside of the club. It's Melanie Baker, with her bubblegum-pink hair, multiple ear piercings, Doc Martens, and black lipstick. She's wearing a different outfit today- it's simple, a black t-shirt and black jeans. She's carrying a big tub of what appears to be pretzels in one arm, while the other arm is plopped on her waist.

"Oh. Yeah. Hi." I wave at her with a goofy smile. The bouncer looks at us both, a little crease on his forehead, and then he mutters something to himself. I decide to ignore them. "Hi, Melanie J. Baker."

"Um... whoa. This is a crazy coincidence." She stares at me, and shakes her head. "Christ almighty. What are the odds?" Something seems to strike her. "Wait. Did I tell you my last name?"

"Oh. Uh. No. I uh, came to give you this." I rummage through my backpack again, pulling out the textbook. "Been missing the Classical Era lately?"

Melanie's jaw drops. "Oh, my God. I have been looking for that _everywhere. _My history teacher wants to murder me." A delighted grin spreads across her face. "Where on earth did you find it? And how did you know that I was going to be here?"

I scratch my ear. "That's the thing," I say. "You know how you probably had a conversation with someone named Jake, and you assumed that the telephone number was foreign because it was some random girl he was sleeping around with?"

"Yeah," Melanie says slowly. "That sounds familiar."

"Well." I clear my throat nervously. "As it turns out- I tried to interrupt you, but see, you didn't let me- I was Jake in that phone call. I tried to call you a couple of times after that, but you didn't pick up, and you told me the address, so…" I shrug. "Here I am."

Melanie's eyes widen to the size of saucers. "Oh, Jesus. I am _so _sorry about that. I just assumed that you were Jake again, calling me about some new thing to whine about." Her hand claps over her mouth. "I am _mortified._"

"Yeah. Uh. Well. It's not really that big of a deal," I say. "You dropped this textbook when you sort of ran over me the other day, so I decided to just come and give it to you. I've heard that college books can be kind of expensive." I hand her the textbook.

She takes it with her free hand reverently. "Oh, thank you. So much. Percy Greek-not-British, you are officially my new favourite person. Really." She smiles at me, highlighting her high cheekbones.

"No problem. Honest." I look down at the bin of miscellaneous brown twists. "Is that… is that a big tub of _pretzels_? Sorry, but that's been killing me since you got out here. If so, that's a lot of pretzels."

She laughs. "Yes, but it's not all for me, I swear. I'm working tonight- I'm on a shift for a catering business with my boss, Sam, and a few other workers. We're all trying to keep the snacks flowing, and it's not exactly easy. We're understaffed, thanks to Jake's absence yet again."

"That sucks," I say, giving her an empathetic smile.

"Yeah. It does. A lot, actually." Melanie seems to get an idea. She looks me up and down, giving me a cryptic look. "Hey. Percy Greek-not-British. Do you want to earn a couple bucks tonight?"

Life is like a highway. Every decision in life is like a fork in the road, turning left or right. Every feeling is like a brick in the road, slowly contributing to make up an entire pathway. Every obstacle is like a roadblock, and every solution is like a bridge. Life is like a highway, and every decision tells you where you're going to go.

It doesn't take long for me to consider it. My mind's already made up the moment that Melanie J. Baker asks me. "That depends," I say slowly. "What would you have me doing?"

Melanie smiles, again emphasizing her sloping cheekbones. "Come on," she says. "I'll show you."

* * *

**A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Thank you to all reviewers, and please review again!**


	4. Samuel Stocks

Chapter Three

* * *

**My family has never been a cooking family.**

My mother grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio. The first thing she learned how to cook was a Frito casserole*, and to this day, her favorite food is still a cheese Coney dog with root beer, a combination that she grew to love in her teenage years. After her uncle got sick and died, she moved in with her good friend, who had moved to Montauk a year earlier**. And, as they say, the rest is history.

Despite my New York City heritage- the center of trade and commerce in America- on some level, my mother never really let go of her Ohioan history. She still knows how to make a wicked seven-layer bean dip, grill hot dogs and hamburgers like a pro, and can name all flavors of _Lay's _chips by heart. It's the staple of Midwestern living, and my mother just never really let go.

With me growing up under the wing of her extensive food knowledge, it isn't all that big of a surprise that the first thing I learned to cook was Hamburger Helper. Even to this day, I still don't know how to cook a lot more. I've gradually added mac 'n' cheese (from a box, of course), frozen meals, and toast to my list, but after I set off the smoke alarm after attempting to make a pancake, my mother and I decided that it's best I stop there.

When I lost my left arm, at first, I wasn't sure how to function without it. Just putting a shirt on in the morning was a challenge, especially after I had to learn how to adjust the prosthetic arm. Cooking seemed like an even bigger challenge. Yet, when my mother was late coming home from work one day, I decided to give it a shot. It couldn't hurt, after all. And, surprisingly enough, you really didn't need two arms to cook. You could do everything with one.

When my mother came home to find Gabe unsurprisingly passed out on the couch, she also came home to find me, sitting at the table. There were old, dirty placemats we hadn't used in ages on the scratched table, spotty water glasses, and a vase of wilted milkweed. There was also two bowls of mac 'n' cheese, a thawed frozen pretzel, and two slices of buttered toast.

She looked up at me, a question in her eyes, and I answered without her having to ask. My mother never needs to ask; I just know. "I made dinner," I told her flatly, gesturing to the table lifelessly.

My mother sat down without a word, picked up her fork, and began to eat. I think that on some instinctive level, she knew how hard it was for me to make that dinner. And on some instinctive level, she realized that she didn't need to say thank-you. Just by shoveling my undercooked, soupy mac 'n' cheese in her mouth, taking a bite of my blackened toast, and gnawing on the barely-thawed pretzel was enough.

Likewise, I didn't need to tell her thank-you back. It was already understood as we ate dinner in silence that night, the only sound purging the thick air Gabe's heavy snoring. That's the thing about thank-yous.

The best ones don't need to be said.

They're just there.

Just understood.

* * *

**"****Got it?" Melanie says, a questioning look in her eyes.**

I stare at her, a confused expression plainly writ on my face. Not for the first time, I am regretting getting myself into this mess. When I first came down to Karma, I had no idea that I would be asked to help the caterers. In fact, if I had known, then I probably wouldn't have come. I am here now, though, and there is nothing else to be said. There is just a job, waiting to be done.

"I think so," I say slowly. I chew my lip worriedly. "Or. Um. Maybe not." I shoot her an apologetic glance. "I didn't really catch much of what you were saying. You spoke really, really fast."

Melanie sighs, slapping a palm to her forehead. "I don't have time for this," she grumbles. "Sorry," she tells me quickly, as if she's understanding how this must sound. "It's my lazy, half-assed brother that I'm mad at, not you." She checks her watch. "Where is he, anyway?"

I shift from foot to foot. What can you say to this? I don't know Jake Baker, whomever he may be, and I barely know Melanie. There is nothing to say to this; not really. Melanie just groans. "Sorry," she tells me again. "If you want to go, then you can't. I won't hold it against you."

For a moment, I think about saying yes. In fact, my lips are already forming the word when "No" comes out instead. Melanie's pierced eyebrows shoot up, nearly to the fringe of her pink pixie-cut hair. I grin at her sheepishly. "It's alright; really. I've got nothing to do tonight anyway."

"Really," she says flatly, skeptically. "Pretty boy like you, and you've got nothing better to do than fill in for a slacker in a last-minute catering job?" She says this with such conviction that I can't help but smile wryly. I wonder if she would still think me pretty if she were to see the scars on my back- yet another tribute from the accident.

I shrug. "You said you'd pay me double," I say, sticking my right hand into the pocket of my jeans. "Clearly, I need some new shoes, so that's a very enticing offer to me." I flash her a quick grin as her eyes immediately go down to my sneakers. A hole is in the left toe, the laces are missing on the right shoe altogether, and both of the soles are flapping loosely, having long since unhinged from the shoe.

Melanie looks up to me and shakes her head. "Can't argue with that one." She studies me closely, though. "Still," she says. "You waited three days to call me, and you finally decided on Friday. Why do it on Friday instead of Wednesday?"

"I dunno," I say, looking down at the ground. It's the only thing that I can think of to say. Melanie waits for me to say something else, to add to my simple 'I dunno,' but I don't want to say anything. Melanie is the first new person that I have met that doesn't know about the accident. She doesn't know that while I have lived seventeen years, I can only remember twelve. She doesn't know that my left arm is prosthetic, that the scars on my back look like a tic-tac-toe board, that I am in love with a girl that does not exist. Melanie does not ever need to know this. For now, I am just any other boy, one who happened to be walking in Central Park the day that she ran me over with her bike.

"Alright," she says, finally realizing that I am not going to add to the conversation. "Well, I wouldn't ask you to do this if we weren't terribly understaffed. I've only got Sam and Carly here, besides me. Sam's our boss." She gives me a worried look. "He only looks like a hard-ass from the outside, too. I swear. And Carly- well-" she tugs on one of her large, silver hoop earrings. "She just needs a little help. She's new here. Our best worker, Sophie Adena, canceled on us at the last minute, and…"

I am already lost, though. I feel a prickle in my shoulder blades, and something like a piece of yarn snapping. _Sophie, _I think. _Sophie Adena. _My heart starts to race a thousand miles an hour, and for some reason, I find this name to be familiar. I've never heard the name before, so that's impossible, but it resonates within me. _Sophie. _

"Hello? Percy Greek-not-British?" I snap back to attention to see Melanie waving a hand in front of my face. She looks impatient, and I can't blame her. We've been in Karma for nearly ten minutes now, after Melanie coaxed the bouncer- with some heated debate- to let me in, though I am underage. She has tried unsuccessfully three times to teach me the ways of catering, how to refill the different bowls without grossing people out (don't show them the nasty containers, use white gloves, and arrange with a bit of garnish, but not too much; people are _very _picky about their garnish), how to help people decide their food choices, but without prodding (you are to be invisible- people don't _ask _for your help. You're like that one second-resort option you always have up your sleeve; you don't want to have to use it, but you're glad to know it's there), and even how to spike the punch bowl just-so (the managers get very prickly if they find more piles of puke than normal on the floor, and they blame the first people they can find: the catering staff). It's my fault that I don't understand. It's my ADHD. It's my lack of focus. I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I think I've got it now. Really."

Melanie raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Really."

"Yes, really," I say, becoming a bit heated now. "Look, you asked for my help, and I'm here. I may not be able to launch a rocket, but I can certainly refill bowls of pretzels, spike punch, and return textbooks."

She glares at me for a moment, and then, surprisingly, out of nowhere, she laughs. In the brief time that I've gotten to know her, I've realized that Melanie Baker is like quicksilver. Her mood shifts from anguished, ecstatic, and furious all in a millisecond. It's just like her appearance: while her hair is bubblegum pink and spontaneous, her clothes are dark and somber, while her way of talking- that constant wavering of her voice that sounds as if she's about to break down at any moment- contradicts it all. She's like me, I realize with a start. One moment, I'm off in dreamland, the next, I'm being grounded back to Earth.

"Well," she says, drawling out the word. "If you say so."

"I do say so," I tell her indignantly. "Now: where are the pretzels?"

* * *

**Chaos.**

That is the one word that comes to mind when I first step into the whirlwind that is catering. Pure and utter chaos. I don't know how refilling bowls of pretzels and such at nightclubs can be hectic, but apparently, it can be downright lethal. As soon as I step over to the tables holding the snacks and the makeshift minibar, the first thing I hear is the yelling. The first thing I see is the wary customer, eyes darting around nervously as if wondering if he should just walk away.

There is a clatter of pans as I walk over with Melanie. "Uh-oh," Melanie says under her breath. "This just can't be good." I shoot her a worried look. She grimaces in a half-smile. "Look, just remember: Sam doesn't _mean _to be a possessed demon half of the time. He just gets very… passionate… about his work."

I raise my eyebrows. "Passionate? In what way?"

"Well…"

"_This is not guacamole! This is pig slop!_" We both turn as a short man comes into view. He looks to be in his forties or fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, bright eyes, a goatee, and is wearing a full chef's uniform, complete with the hat. He's yelling in a heavy British accent at a stocky girl who is holding a bowl full of some greenish substance- guacamole, probably.

"I did my best!" the girl wails. She holds up the bowl, brandishing it at him. "It's green, and the onions are cut up and _everything_! I already _told _you, I don't know how to make guacamole!"

"You should have figured it out," the man says, eyes livid. "You have one of those newfangled devices! The brill-whatchamacallits!" At the girl's blank look, he elaborates. "The little miniature tablets!"

"A smart phone?" she says flatly.

"Yes!" the man says, pointing a finger at her. "Exactly so! You should have bloody figured it out, but did you? No. Of course not. You are too caught up in being a bloody imbecile that you couldn't spare a moment to _think _about-"

At this point, Melanie decides to break it up. "_Okay,_" she says sharply, putting herself between the two of them briskly. "Sam. Carly." She shoots them both glares. "It's just a bowl of guacamole. Avocado mush." Sam bristles, but Melanie puts up a hand. "Ah-ah-ah. No. It _is, _Sam. You have _got _to relax!"

He points a finger at the girl- Carly, I think. "She _murdered _the guacamole!" he cries, as if to vindicate his case. "Practically murdered it! What was I supposed to do? Just stand by?"

"Oh, yes, because you actually thought about _that _for more than two seconds!" Carly shouts. I furrow my eyebrows, more than a little alarmed. If things continue like this, I'll be witnessing my very first club brawl. I can't decide if I'm rooting for it or not.

"Both of you, shut up!" Melanie yells. Instantly, dance and motion in the club stop as every person looks over at her. The music is almost deafeningly loud, but even over all of that, the yells have reached a level so as to still everyone in the crowd. She grabs them both by the scruff of their necks. "Carly," she says. "Go make a new bowl of guacamole. Do it right this time. Sam- despite his somewhat unorthodox tactics- is right. You weren't without resources." Carly narrows her eyes but goes off, huffing to herself as Melanie releases her. "Sam. You need to be a bit easier on her. She's just a trainee."

"And how do you think you learned? Or Sophia?" he says indignantly. My heart stills. There that name is again. _Sophia. _"Tough love, that's how!"

"I think that Sophia learned because her parents are chefs," Melanie says dryly. "And as for me- well, I watched a ton of cooking shows when I was a kid. Despite your 'tough love', Jake still doesn't know how to cook."

"Jake is a lazy bitch," he says, untangling himself and sticking Melanie with a glare, who, despite Sam's best efforts, is impervious.

"Be that as it may," Melanie says, "you need to let up on her a little. Please. It's _Carly_. She tried to mix mayonnaise and gummy bears the other day to make pudding. Do you remember that?"

Sam scowls. "I do remember that. She had the nerve to use _Miracle-Whip, _too. Everyone knows that _Hellman's _is clearly the better brand."

"Oh, my God," Melanie groans. She whacks Sam on the back of the head, ignoring his squawk of indignation. "Once again, Samuel Stocks has shown us how to completely and totally _miss the point._" She rolls her eyes.

Sam narrows his eyes at her, but turns away. He seems to notice me for the first time, just standing there, my right hand stuffed into my pocket. "Boy," he barks. "Do you need something?"

"Oh, that's Percy Greek-not-British," Melanie says, answering for me. "He's here to fill in for Sophia tonight."

"Oh really?" Sam says, disbelief clear in his tone. "Boy," he says, taking a step closer to me, so close, in fact, that I can smell a faint scent of tuna on his breath, "what is your favorite food?"

I blink. "Umm… blue chocolate-chip cookies?"

Sam looks dumbfounded. "Did you just say…. _Blue _chocolate-chip cookies?"

"Uh, yeah. Blue." I grin a bit, though it comes out as forced. "It's my favorite color, and my mom always used to make them for me. On rainy days, and stuff like that. It's this sort of running joke that we've had for a while now."

Sam just stares at me. "Did I ask for your favorite color? No. Do not add unnecessary commentary when it is not asked for, boy. Oftentimes, no one wants to hear your voice."

I can't help it. Really. My tongue seems to get ahead of me, taking over completely, and before I know it, I'm saying, "Well, that's ironic, seeing as how you talk _far _too much, even when no one's listening." I fix a cold, hard stare on him. "Do not add unnecessary commentary when it is not asked for, old man. Oftentimes, no one wants to hear your voice."

I hear Melanie suck in a sharp breath, but I'm too busy looking into Sam's dark, dull eyes. His eyes flare up, and in that moment, I am reminded of Gabe. Switch the stench of cigars and liquor with tuna, and you have a perfect match.

Then the flashback is over, and he is stepping back, regarding me with a respectful life. "What is your name, boy?" he says, though he knows full-well Melanie told it not more than two minutes ago.

"Percy," I tell him. "Percy Jackson." Once, this name held great meaning. It was the name of a demigod, of the legacy of an incredible Greek god. It was the name of a boy destined for greatness. It was the name of a boy with a good life. It was the name of a boy who had experienced _life. _It was the name of a boy who had lost people, had sex, kissed, gotten grades- bad, and, occasionally, good- fought for those he loved, fought for those he didn't, rediscovered himself, and made friends. He had laughed, loved, and lost.

And in a heartbeat, it was all taken away.

In that moment, though, I see a way to become that boy again. I see a way to experience life without the pains of the past. These people: Samuel Stocks, Carly, Melanie Baker; they don't know that I was in an accident. They don't know that I am in love with a dream girl. They don't know everything that is wrong with me. To them, I am any ordinary boy, on any ordinary day. Now, though- now I am getting the chance to begin again.

I have never lost a person. I have never had sex, kissed, and though I have gotten bad grades, I have not gotten any good ones. I have never fought for those I love, I have never fought for those I don't, I have never rediscovered myself, and I have had far too few friends. I have laughed, but never like that boy did, I have never loved. But truly, I have lost. More than any one person can ever imagine.

As Samuel Stocks stares at me, disbelief written plainly on his face, he finally sticks out a hand. I shake it, albeit hesitantly. "Well, Percy Jackson," he says, his Cockney accent clipped, "if you fix that attitude, find a little respect, and show a bit of talent for cooking, then we might just have a use for you."

And just like that, I begin again.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the late update! Thank you to all who are still reading this story (even after my ridiculously late update). I'll try to update faster in the future.**

**That being said, thank you to all reviewers! It was a review that I got today that finally spurred me to write this chapter. You guys propel me to write faster. Thanks SO much! **

**Please review! Let me know what you think: thoughts and all!**

***To all who are offended to the reference to Midwestern food: it is a stereotype. I am a Midwesterner myself, and I understand that not all food is like that in the Midwest; I simply put it that way to give a certain depth to Percy's situation: he is attempting to cater for someone with minimal knowledge of food.**

****I took a few liberties with Sally's upbringing. It never said specifically that she was raised in New York, but it hints at it heavily. However, her growing up in Cincinnati better benefits the purposes of the story. That being said, if anyone knows a situation where it is COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY SAID OUTRIGHT where she is from New York City or from any other state, please contact me (PM or review) and I will alter the chapter. Thank you.**


	5. Sophie Adena

Chapter Four

* * *

**_That night, I dream of Annabeth. _**

_We are together, on a stranded island. There is nothing . t the sand beneath our feet, warmed by the bright, bright sun. It is a cloudless day, the sky a brilliant blue. Water is all around us, surrounding our island for miles and miles, waves gently lapping at the shore of our tiny island. The island in itself is no bigger than thirty feet across, a tiny little circle of sand in the midst of an ocean._

_Annabeth and I are dancing to music. We are spinning in circles, my hands clasped firmly on her thin waist, her long, slender fingers on my shoulders. Her gray eyes sparkle up at me, and the lyrics surround us, lulling me into a sense of security._

'Just a small town girl-

'Livin' in a lonely world-

'She took the midnight train goin' anywhere…'

_Then, all of a sudden, the music stops. There is nothing but silence on our lonely island, and Annabeth pulls back. Her gray eyes are wide with fear. "Percy," she mouths, but no sound comes out. "Percy!" she screams, but still, there is no sound. She begins to cry, but instead of normal-sized tears, there are great big tears. They are so big, in fact; that they begin to bring the island back into the water. It sinks into the sea, and she is screaming, still those haunting, silent screams._

_The sand begins to collapse in on itself, and Annabeth scrambles, trying desperately to reach me as she cries gigantic tears. I run toward her, my hand outstretched, but all of a sudden, she is sucked back into the void, back into the ocean, and she is going, going, gone._

_I fall to my knees as the island keeps on sinking. It falls into the water, and I wait, feeling that I will breathe underwater, that the water will try to claim me but fail. I wait, looking up at the bright azure waves that will attempt to take my life. _

_Yet, as soon as the water closes around me, I cannot breathe. My lungs don't work; they're compressed, struggling for breath, but I don't let them. I've already lost Annabeth. There is nothing left. And so, as the water wraps me in its tight, salty cocoon, I close my eyes. There is but ten seconds I have left._

_Ten, nine, eight, seven…six…five…four…three…two…_

_Nothing._

* * *

**I wake up in a cold sweat.**

I bolt up in my bed, gasping for breath. Once I realize that I can, in fact, still breathe, I lean back on my pillows, my head bouncing on my mattress. I take great, heaping, shaky breaths. I almost died, and yet, I didn't. I put my hands to my face, willing to calm down. All it takes is three deep breaths, my mother used to tell me when I was younger. How I wish I could tell her that for some problems, it takes more than that.

The song in the dream was _Don't Stop Believin'. _I want to laugh. I don't know how there is anything left inside of me that still believes much of anything anymore. I am still just lost. I am unbelievably lost. I am losing my fucking mind, every day that I sit in this bed, every day that I wake up, every day that I go through the motions. There is nothing in me that even believes anymore.

Every day, a little piece of me slides away from me. Even with Melanie, even with Sam, I still feel so alone. I can't talk to my mother. She's dealing with her own demons: Gabe. I can't talk to Grover, I can't talk to Chiron, I can't talk to my father, I can't talk to Frank, or Hazel, or anyone I have ever loved. I am alone on my own island. There is nothing left for me, just the sand, slowly collapsing in on me. It's only a matter of time before I am sucked in.

Right now, I want to go to the airport. I want to buy a plane ticket for a thousand dollars. I want to go through a red-eye, all the way to San Francisco. I want to go to Annabeth's apartment- the one that I know by heart- and knock on the door, hoping, praying, that it is her gray eyes that look back into mine. I want to walk through the rain and sleet and snow, and when I finally reach her, I want to be drenched, shivering, and a mess.

Just one last time, I want to hear her laugh. I want to see her smile. I want to kiss her, I want to love her; I want to be with her. Just one last time. She doesn't even exist, though. I am in love with a ghost of my mind, and she plagues me, every single day.

The sick thing is, if it were now, what happened on that island, I'm not sure that I would have resisted. I'm not sure that I would have protested to that water, to the blackness, to the countdown. I'm not sure of that at all.

Then again, I'm not sure of anything anymore.

* * *

**After the catering job, my life slowly starts to return to normal.**

That one, crazy night in Karma starts to fade into the distance. The loud, booming music drowns out to a small hum, the sound of Sam yelling and shouting goes to a small whisper, barely heard over the sound of my humdrum life, coming into full view. It's as if that club was just a fairytale, nothing more to it. Just a story I read in a book once, of a different Percy Jackson than the one I am now.

Then I go up to my bedside table, lean down, and I see it. It's a pack of cigarettes- Melanie's cigarettes- that I filched before leaving. I didn't want to go without something to remember the night by, and so I grabbed that. I didn't think anything of it at the time; Melanie had already left, just leaving her cigarette pack on the table. Unconsciously, I took it, even though I don't smoke.

I don't think my mother even realized how lost I am. She has her own problems to deal with: the night after I got back from Karma, she had a split lip and black eye. Some part of me wanted to ask about it, but instead, I just got her a bag of frozen peas and a cup of tea. I have long since stopped trying to ask questions. It's only after you ask them that you realize you don't want to hear the answer.

So, on the morning of May 20, two and a half weeks after that night in Karma, the last thing I expect is a call from Melanie's number. Even after the two and a half weeks, I still recognize it. The digits spent enough time taunting me as it is. I furrow my eyebrows, confused. It is one of the few mornings that I am not out walking in Central Park, thinking about Annabeth. Instead, I'm sitting at my kitchen table, drinking a lukewarm cup of coffee and attempting to do sixth-grade math.

"Um… hello?" I say, glancing at the clock. 8:15. For someone who spends their nights as sleeplessly as I do, 8:15 isn't early, but for the Gabes of the world, 12:56 is early. I wonder which one Melanie is, for a brief second.

"Oh, Percy, thank _God._" I hear Melanie's voice, slipping from relieved to panicky in a sliver of a moment. _Quicksilver, _I think. "Jesus. You don't even know how grateful I am that I got through to you, I swear to God."

"Um… okay," I say. "Melanie, how did you get my number?"

"I didn't," she says. "Sam did. You gave it to him at the club the other night, to see if he needed you for any other gigs?" I think about this for a brief pause, letting it sink in. I wonder briefly if I drank any of that spiked punch. "Remember?"

"Uh. Yeah. Sure. Right," I say, pursing my lips, concerned that I don't remember. That can't be right. Before I can dwell on it too long, however, Melanie has started talking, her voice high-pitched and anxious.

"_No, _Carly! We can't bring your grandma's cat to the cater, for the last time! I don't care how sick she is. I don't _care _how much your grandma is paying at you. No dandruff on the chocolate-covered strawberries!"

"Melanie?" I say, confused. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah," she says, exhaling. "Just a minor problem. Look, I've really got to go, but the address is 467 Baker Lane. It's outside of the city a ways- well, it's actually kind of in Connecticut. It's in a town called Westport, 'kay? You need to be there by noon. White shirt, black pants. See you soon! Bye!"

"Melanie, what the hell?" I say, but there's a click on the receiver, and the phone is dead. It's brief, spontaneous, and completely out-of-the-blue, just like all of my encounters with Melanie J. Baker. I sigh, exasperated, and set the receiver down on the table.

For a moment, I consider not going. I could stay here, make cup after cup of coffee, and cease to live. I can fade into the background, and let the sand collapse in on me, dragging me under the water, just like in my dream.

Before the implication even sets in, though, I'm halfway to my room, looking for a pair of black jeans and a white shirt. I might not resist on an island, with the water dragging me under. I might decide just for a brief second that I'm done, that I need a break, that I just can't do it anymore.

And then I remember that a brief second is not a lifetime.

Not even close.

* * *

**After getting lost three times, accidentally taking the wrong highway exit twice, and almost doubling back five times, I finally arrive at the destination.**

I take Gabe's car with me, his prized red Corvette. It was never wrecked five years ago, as it had been in Dream World, but was still intact, albeit never touched. When I left, Gabe was still sound asleep, working off a nasty hangover from the previous night. One of his parties had apparently run late, and when he staggered home, he hadn't made it further than the front hallway. My mother moved him to the living room, but she made no effort to put a blanket over him, or take his shoes off, or even lift him onto the couch. I like to think that it was just so that she could get him out of the way of the door.

I finally arrive at the place. It's nice, just like the rest of Westport. The entire place is like a place out of a fairytale. There are white-picket fences, picture-perfect shopping areas, and large, sprawling McMansions out of the town limits. Even the Starbucks is nice and cutesy. I smile. I have been to this part of the country before; it's the Northeastern elite part of town, where all of the rich businessmen and women from New York City live, despite the heavy transit.

It's a large McMansion. The enormous house is built for the beach; in fact, it's right on it. It's on the shore a mile or so down from a coastline area known as Compo Beach. It's clearly a beach house: there are the typical grayish shingles, the painted shutters, and the beach-themed decorations, though they're interwoven with pink and blue balloons and streamers. When I first arrive, I just look up at the mansion, shake my head, and smooth my shirt. What would it be like to be that fantastically rich? To have so much money that you could live in a perfect house, in a perfect town, with a perfect life? I guess I'll never know.

"Percy!"

I turn, seeing Melanie rushing over to me, her bright, vividly pink hair whipping in the cool ocean breeze. She's running down the hill in front of the house, nearly tripping over mounds of dirt as she does so. "Oh, thank God," she says when she's caught up to me. "I almost thought you weren't going to come."

I check my watch. "I'm ten minutes early, though."

She waves her hand, still struggling for breath. "Details, details," she wheezes out, waving a hand. "Just- um- gimme a second…" she pants. "OhsweetMarymotherofJesus," she says, somehow blurring the words all together in one word to fit in one breath.

I roll my eyes. "You know, maybe you shouldn't smoke so many cigarettes."

Her head snaps up. "How… d'you… know… that… smoke… cigarettes," she says, squinting her eyes. Suddenly, I feel the cigarette pack in my back pocket. Sighing, I know that it's inevitable that I give it back now. She was probably missing it, anyway.

"You left these the other night," I tell her flatly, handing her the pack of Lucky Strikes. She stares up at me, squinting her eyes.

"How did you know that they were mine?" she asks, her breath back now. Melanie takes a step backwards. "Are you one of those freaky telepathic psychopaths who need to be locked up in a mental ward?"

I laugh. "No. God, no. You just wrote your name and phone number on the inside of the pack." Suspicious, she sends me a dubious glance. "Go on. Look. Honestly, it's like you write your name and phone number _everywhere._ One of these days, it's going to be graffiti on a wall."

She's still looking at me suspiciously. "And you didn't smoke any of them?"

"No," I say. I don't know how I can explain to her _why, _though. It just seems that cigarettes are so closely aligned with cancer, and with sickness, and with hospitals that I shut down every time I think of lighting one. I don't want to spend any more time in a hospital. Instead I say, "I just figured I'd give these to you when we saw each other next. They're not cheap, so…" I shrug. This isn't the whole truth- not even close- but it will have to do for now.

Melanie's still looking at me skeptically, so I clear my throat and switch subjects. "What is this gathering, anyway?" I say, gesturing to the balloons and streamers.

"Oh. It's a baby shower," she says with a wave of her hand. "Some socialite is pregnant, and her family can't _wait _to throw her a multi-thousand-dollar party in favor of her unborn baby." She snorts in disgust. "Typical."

"Really," I say flatly. "Well, that's just great, then. I guess they're expecting the works?"

"Exactly so," says Melanie. "I mean, _Jesus. _We brought brie here thirty minutes ago, and they were all like, 'Oh, hello. Why are you late?', and I was like, 'Um, excuse me, Lily Pulitzer Pants, but I am most definitely _not _late,', and she was still like, 'Um, yes you are, and is that brie? That's _ever so _uncultured.' I was like, 'It's frigging French! That's in _Europe_! How much more cultured does she want to get?"

I just stare at Melanie. "Um," I say.

"Sorry," she says with a wave of her hand. "You know how it gets. Clients and all."

In fact, I _don't _know how it gets, but Melanie thinks that I do. The story that I've given her and Sam is this: I have a little experience in catering, but not much. Mostly, I'm just the cheese and crackers person at parties who gives people refills. They both laughed at this, but the sad part is, I'm not entirely kidding. I _am _the cheese and cracker/refill guy at Gabe's poker parties.

"Yeah. Um. Right," I say. "Totally."

She looks behind me to the car. "Snazzy ride. Where's that one from?"

"Oh, that's nothing," I say. "It's really just my stepfather's Corvette-"

Just then, we are interrupted. I see a small figure running down the hill, slipping and sliding on the slick, mushy grass, still wet from the last spring rain. For some reason, my stomach lurches. I _know _that figure. I've seen it so many times before, but lately only in dreams, in Dream World, on my isolated island with the sand collapsing.

I hear her before I can see her. "Melanie!" she calls, her high, clear voice tinted by something. "Melanie! Can you look up, please? We've got a little crisis over here!" Her voice is shrill, so similar from the many times that I've been next to her as she's had panic attacks in the midst of fighting.

"Yeah, okay!" Melanie shouts back. "Just hold on one minute, Sophie…" And that's as far as she gets, because after that, I'm lost, just staring at her, drinking her in, wondering if this is really her, if this is _really happening to me._

Finally-_finally_\- she is visible. She's not wearing Annabeth's clothes; she's wearing black jeans and a white shirt, but even then, I know her. Her honey blonde curls are pulled back into a bun with two chopsticks, her gray eyes are bright and alive, she is wearing that half-smile with her lips that I know spells trouble, and more than anything else, she is in front of me, running down the hill.

It's Annabeth Chase, after all this time, running down the hill.

The last thing I see is Annabeth's face before my knees buckle and my world goes black.

**A/N: Thanks to all reviewers! I've managed to do a daily update to rectify my last long-overdue chapter. Hope you all enjoy! Please review; you make my day when you do!**


	6. The Dangers of Smoking

**Disclaimer: We've established that I don't own Percy Jackson at this point.**

**Rating: T**

**A/N: Sorry for the late update! Though, by now, I suppose you've all grown to expect it... *sighs* Sorry, anyway. I can't promise any more regularity for updates, as I have to begin compiling my high school application and writing a novel for class, but I'll try, anyway.**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**The first time anyone ever hit me, I was six years old. **

I guess it goes without saying that you should never talk back to anyone bigger than you. It's not one of Jesus's rules, or one of Muhammad's, or Buddha's, or any other worshipped being. It's one of the rules from what I like to call the Poor Kid Code of Conduct. The Poor Kid Code of Conduct isn't a written down set of rules. It's just an unsaid agreement between the street rats that roam the alleyways of New York City, scrounging in the gutter, smoking cigarettes, and beating each other up. It's not something that I ever learned. I was taught. There's a difference, I've learned. Being taught is not something you choose.

There was a bully in my elementary school. This was pre-Gabe, and pre-coma. Back then, I didn't know the difference between Dream World and Real World. How much simpler, I think, looking back on my life as a six year-old, life was when you didn't have the crushing sense of reality and responsibility on your shoulders.

This bully was the biggest, meanest kid in the entire grade. He wasn't like today's bullies- the star football players who could play their way into college without getting an A on a single test or paying a dime-, but rather a fat, chubby kid with a smashed, pug-like face. His name was Darren. I don't think you could call what I felt for him hatred, but it was certainly nothing positive.

While other kids at my school had recess with normal activities, like jump-rope, hula-hooping, or playing kickball, Darren's favorite game was 'Smash a Poor Unfortunate Soul's Face into a Piece of Nasty Cafeteria Pizza'. One day, he made the mistake of choosing one of my friends.

I was never a popular kid. I'm not a popular kid now. But the friends that I do have, from Dream World and Real World, I am fiercely loyal to. In Dream World, people often told me that I was too loyal for my own good. I can testify to that, but seeing as how my life is no longer at stake in the world of monsters and demigods, my loyalty isn't really an issue. Especially considering that I don't have any friends to which I can apply it.

One of my best friends at the time was named Alexi Antakov. He was Russian, and despite the fact that the Cold War had long-since passed by the time I was born, and Russia and the U.S. weren't really at war, and New York City is supposedly a diverse place (the Russian population is actually 24% of New York City. I looked it up once), Alexi was still prejudiced. I reached out, and we became friends.

Darren tried to play 'Smash a Poor Unfortunate Soul's Face into a Piece of Nasty Cafeteria Pizza' with scrawny, glasses-clad Alexi. Needless to say, I felt responsible. I stepped up for Alexi, vouching for him.

And what do you know? I didn't get a face-full of pizza. I did, however, get a face-full of Darren's meaty, oversized fist.

I learned later that Alexi laughed along with everyone else when Darren beat the living shit out of me. I learned later that Alexi got in a few kicks. I learned later that this was why when I returned the next day (black eye, bandaged wrist, casts, and all), I found Alexi sitting at a different lunch table. He never once scooted over, as I had done for him.

The funny thing is, that hurt more than Darren beating me up. Alexi's reject stayed with me for years. It stung, and cut deeper than I'd admit. That was nothing- _nothing_\- next to the agony I felt at losing Annabeth all over again.

Seeing her again put me over the edge.

Pain at losing someone never really dulls. It sharpens, every time you look at them, whether it's in a photo, a video, or real life. This might just be because it's new to me, and my heart still aches. But I don't think that it'll ever go away.

Not fully.

* * *

**I wake to a bucket of icy, freezing cold water being poured over my face.**

I bolt upright, spluttering and spitting. My dark hair hangs in a fringe over my eyes, nearly obscuring my sight. I plaster it back, blinking as water drips down my face. I emit a strangled sound, growling a bit as I heave myself to my feet. "Who on earth did that?" I demand, still whipping the water droplets out of my hair.

I find myself eye-to-eye with a formidable girl. A cigarette is poking out of the side of her mouth, and her arching cheekbones emphasize dark, stormy eyes. She has one eyebrow arched sarcastically, almost like a question. Her dark, honey-blonde hair is pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck, though her forehead and front of her hair is covered by a red bandana. Her arms and legs are muscular, and well-defined. She's pretty. Hard, but pretty.

I blink twice, stumbling backwards. The girl crosses her arms at my stricken expression. "What?" she snaps, yanking the cigarette out from her mouth. She fingers her pierced ear- it's studded all the way up, from her earlobe to the top bit of cartilage. "Christ. Do I have a third eye that I should be worried about?"

A shiver runs down my spine, and I feel as if all of the wind has been knocked out of me. The girl standing before me is nothing like Annabeth. Annabeth had only one piercing, which she occasionally used for her owl earrings. Annabeth never wore bandannas. Annabeth always kept her hair long- _really _long, streaming all the way down to the small of her back, unlike this girl's shoulder-length cut. Annabeth never wore the amount of eyeliner that this girl is wearing. And Annabeth _certainly _never smoked cigarettes. I did, once, a while ago, in sixth grade, before the crash.

"Well?" the girl says, glaring at me. She's being awfully harsh, I think briefly. She glares at me, shaking her head. That's the first time that I notice the scar on her cheek. And the first time that I really see the difference between her and Annabeth.

A long, pink, puckered scar runs down her right cheek, trailing from her right temple to her chin. My eyes widen, if only for a millisecond, and then I flick my gaze back to her eyes. I know all about scars. I don't even have my left arm.

"No," I say, my voice shaky. "No. Not at all." I rub my eyes.

The girl narrows her eyes at me. Her grip loosens on the metal bucket that she holds in her hands, and she takes a long drag from her cigarette, puffing it out in a stream of gray smoke. "Then why are you looking at me like I've suddenly sprouted horns?"

I grimace, a bitter laugh escaping me. "You look like an old friend of mine," I say, gazing at her thoughtfully. The initial shock has worn away. She looks like Annabeth. She talks like Annabeth. And yet, despite this, she isn't Annabeth. I don't know if it's the scar on her cheek or the cigarette in her hand that does it, but she isn't Annabeth anymore. And, sick and twisted as that is, it makes my heart ache a little less.

"Oh, really?" The girl scoffs. "Who?"

I gaze at her thoughtfully. She meets my gaze, headstrong. I once knew a girl with those same exact eyes, and that same exact pirate smile. That girl didn't have a nose piercing, though. That girl didn't have a slightly gravelly voice. "Just someone that I used to know," I say simply. I run a hand through my wet hair. "Why did you pour a bucket of water on me?"

The girl puts up a hand in a traffic-cop gesture. "No. I'm not done with you. Who was this somebody?" She seems to be getting worked-up about this. "And, to answer your stupid question, I did it because you face-planted into the grass- quite beautifully, I'll admit- and weren't waking up."

I squint at her. "And it never occurred to you that I might be permanently injured? Dead? Struggling to breathe?"

"Oh, please." She blew out a steady stream of smoke from her cigarette. "I know a faint when I see one. I've seen my father do plenty of 'em. My brothers even more so." She frowns. "I also know that, unlike them, you aren't stoned or drunk."

"I could be," I point out.

"But you're not. I can tell. Your pupils are the normal size, and you're not staggering or slurring." She takes another drag from her cigarette, assessing me. "So the question is: why did you faint? And why are you still staring at me?"

I snort. "I see that we're back to this topic. Awesome."

The girl glares at me. "Yes. We are back to this topic. Now, just answer the question, and we can move on." She exhales a smoke of stream, and then jumps a bit when the flame gets near her fingers. Growling, she drops the cigarette to the green grass, grounding it into the soil.

"You're polluting the earth," I say.

"No, I'm not. It'll decompose. Stop changing the subject." She brings out another pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of her jeans- which, I notice, are unnaturally tight. If I put a quarter in her back pocket, I am fairly certain I will be able to tell if it's heads or tails. Not that I'm going to, of course. I'm already finding that this girl is highly irritating.

"Why do you even care?" I ask. "Honestly. You look like a girl that I used to be in love with. That's why I got freaked out. That's why I keep on scaring at you. It's not because I find you repulsive, or because I find you wildly attractive." I think it's probably best not to mention the fact that she is attractive. Very. Beautiful, even. "It's just because you're sort of like a ghost from my past. Got it?"

The girl stares at me for a long time. She lights her cigarette. Takes a drag. Exhales. Takes another drag. "Fine." It's a small word. But, for the first time, her antagonistic personality isn't being put upon me, and I let out a small sigh of relief.

"Thank _God._" I look around. "Where's Melanie?"

"She went to go start prepping and cooking. Her brother arrived a few minutes ago to help with some stuff, and a few other people should be here soon." The girl shakes her head. "She's got more important things to do than wait on you, hand-and-foot, you know."

I bristle at the insult. "Melanie doesn't wait on me."

"Oh, really?" She arches an eyebrow. "Then what, exactly, pray tell, do you call her reaction to your faint? What was it… oh, yeah. It was something like: Ohmygodohmygod is Percy Greek-not-British okay? Ohmygod he's fainted. OHMYGOD! AAAAH! I'M GOING TO SCREAM FOR SOME UNKNOWN REASON!" She dances around in a little circle.

"…did you just say 'pray tell?"

She makes a choked sound. "The only thing you got out of that whole thing is 'pray tell'? You know, Percy Greek-not-British, there's more to life than the introduction." She scoffs.

I feel my blood start boiling. This girl, whoever she is, doesn't need to tell me that. I've barely lived my seventeen years. The first four I don't remember- not because of amnesia, or a coma, but because they are too far back to recall. The fifth and sixth are blurry. The seventh through eleventh are unhappy. The twelfth through seventeenth are a blur of gods and magic.

I know that there is more to life than the introduction. I know this better than her. There is nothing more to it. And as I narrow my eyes, I take a step closer to her, until our faces are nearly touching.

"I know that there is more to life than the introduction," I hiss. "Trust me." Delicately, I pluck the cigarette out of her hand and drop it into the grass. It smolders for a bit, flickering weakly. I grind it beneath my shoe. "Let it decompose. Smoking kills." I stare at her, my eyes flashing dangerously. "Unless you just want to experience the introduction to life, I suggest that you quit."

The girl's jaw drops, and she looks ready to punch me, but I'm already gone. I push her out of my way firmly but subtly, and by the time she turns around, her shock over, I'm already over the hill, making my way to the house. Her screams are nothing but echoes in the far distance.

They are just the introduction to a bigger picture.

* * *

**I storm into the kitchen of the gigantic white house, my shoes stomping against the floor.**

Melanie looks up at me, alarmed. I have finally found where the catering is operating, no thanks to Melanie or the mystery Annabeth-doppelganger. It is in the basement of the house, in a stone, chilly basement. Regardless of the freezing temperature, everything about it is sleek and beautiful, from the stainless-steel fridge to the slate tiles. There is already an assembly of caterers present, from the klutzy girl I observed the previous night at Karma to Sam, the pretentious chef.

"Alright!" I slam my hands down on the granite countertop. "Who the hell did you leave me with?"

Melanie squints at me. "What? Percy, calm down." She resumes chopping up celery, her knife movements quick and precise. "What are you talking about? And take a few breaths, please. Your face is the color of those tomatoes over there." With her knife, she gestures to a few rosy-red, ripe tomatoes on the counter.

I grit my teeth together. "When I- uh- _fell_, who did you leave me with?"

"Who? Oh, you mean Sophie?" Melanie smiles. "She's a sweetheart, isn't she?"

"Sophie?" I splutter. The name was so girlish, and cute, and, well, undeniably _not _the girl that I had just met. "Her name is Sophie? Sophie what?" I have already begun substituting profanities for the last name, and I am fairly certain that is not the right course of action.

"Sophie Adena?" An unfamiliar boy walks into the kitchen. He looks sleepy, as he keeps blinking his amber eyes periodically. He shakes his head, flipping his shaggy brown hair out of his face. He grins. "What about her?"

Melanie rolls her eyes. "Jesus, Jake! It was _one time. _You slept with her once."

"Yeah." He grins. "But she liked it. Maybe more than she's willin' to admit." He has a drawling, lazy Southern accent that I find hard to place. It is an unfamiliar attribute in the world of New England and New York, and I'm unsettled by it.

"Jake. You didn't have sex with her. Get over it. You made out for a while, kissed a bit, and then she rejected you. Unlike _you, _my dear brother, she isn't made out of one-hundred-percent sleaze. Now, go cut those vegetables over there, or I'll cut you up." Melanie gestures over to a pile of carrots. Jake rolls his eyes and saunters lazily over to the carrots.

I file this information about Sophie and Jake's relationship away. In times of war, you never know what can be helpful. Even if it's just a complicated, non-sex sleeping-together sort of situation. I furrow my eyebrows. _Wait, what? _There is more to this story. I can feel it. And I also know I have no desire to find out within the next five minutes.

This decision made, I turn back to Melanie. "How could you stick me with her?"

"Who? Sophie?" Melanie picks up another celery stick and resumes cutting. "She's a nice girl, Percy. Usually, guys that I know are pleased to wake up to her." She gives me a suggestive glance.

I snort derisively. "What makes you think that I would _ever _be interested in her?"

"You did faint at her beauty," Melanie says. "I don't know. That could be very suggestive of many different things." She winks at me, and I stare at her, fully confused. Who _is _Melanie Baker? This girl with pink bubblegum hair, the Goth clothes, and multiple piercings, whose personality was light and easygoing as ever? Who _is _she?

"I didn't faint at her," I growl. It is then that I say something that I know I will regret. I've always been impulsive. That, combined with my temper, is a lethal combination. Yet, I go on, anyway. "She looked like my girlfriend."

Melanie looks taken aback. "What?"

"She looks like my girlfriend," I say. "Exactly. Right down to the very last detail." I shake my head at her. "I'm not in love with Sophie. Regardless of her appearance, she's not my girlfriend." I turn on my heel.

"Percy! Wait!" Melanie is hurrying behind me, her face contorted. "Why are you worried about her looking like your girlfriend? Just tell your girlfriend. I think she'll probably just find it fascinating."

I laugh bitterly. "Oh, that might be a bit hard."

"What? Why?" Melanie asks, looking genuinely confused.

"Because she's dead."

I lied. I don't know why I lied, but I did. It may as well be the case, anyway. I turn around, leaving Melanie shell-shocked behind me, mouth hanging open. I stomp up the stairs, running through the green hill. On my way up, I pass Sophie Adena, who proceeds to shout profanities at me, sticking her newly lit cigarette in my face.

I'm in the Corvette, speeding down the highway, halfway back to New York City by the time my phone starts to buzz. I glance over, seeing Melanie's number flash on the screen. My eyes harden, and I ignore it. I don't want to talk to anyone right now.

I drive home, my eyes on the street above me, following the secret road of yellow dotted lines and black asphalt, completely ignoring the problems unfolding behind me, in a white house, set on a green hill, with two ground cigarettes in the lawn, slowly decomposing back to soil.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you all liked it! Please review!**


	7. Don't You Cry 'Bout Your Worries

**A/N: Hey. I'm back. *hides behind corner* I'm so sorry that I left this for so long. There's not really any excuse. I'm back now, though, and as of right now have every intention of finishing Comatose, so while updates might be slow, just know they're coming.**

**Note to all reviewers: Thank you!**

**NOTE (PLEASE READ): THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SOMEWHAT ADULT CONCEPTS. (I.E.- DRUG MENTION. _NOT USE_; MENTION.) IF THIS AFFECTS YOUR MORALS IN ANY WAY/SHAPE/FORM, _PLEASE DO NOT READ._ I _DO NOT_ WANT TO INSULT OR OFFEND ANYONE IN ANY WAY.**

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**Chapter Six**

**When I first woke up, I thought the hardest part about the car crash would be the loss of my left arm.**

It was strange, waking up and not being able to move your arm. It just hung on my left side, a piece of Caucasian-colored plastic. I didn't wear the prosthetic arm for my own benefit, really; it was no picnic having to lug around a heavy limb all the time, let me tell you. I wore it instead so that I could walk down the street without having one of The Looks thrown my way.

Here's the thing about humanity: we're all idiots. Every last one of us. None of us really know what the hell we're doing until we reach our seventies, or some wise old age, and by then, you're reaching the end of your life. I swear, humans should have a lifespan of two hundred years. That way you can be wise and actually live, as opposed to, say, sitting in front of _Family Feud _reruns on your box television.

But I think that even two-hundred years won't make a difference in the long run, not in some cases. There are just some people who don't deserve to live. I mean, I don't want to be That Guy - you know, the lunatic who sits on the street corner and screeches about The Apocalypse and How We'd Better Watch Out Or Else, seeing as how Judgement Day is coming. (New York City seems to be especially populated with these sorts of people.)

I'm really not that sort of guy. I don't think I'm God, or that I have any sort of divine right to go and shoot somebody because I think they don't deserve to live. I just kind of keep my thoughts to myself, seeing as how not everybody agrees.

It's the truth, though. There are some people in the world who are just _rude. _And _mean. _And _spiteful. _I mean, just look at Adolf Hitler. Did he deserve to live? After he created a mass genocide of nine million people, I mean?

I think not.

I had never really noticed how many terrible people there were in the world until about a month after I woke up. By that time, I was living at home. It all began one wintry day. My mom sent me out to the store for a carton of milk, so, best as I could, I pulled a t-shirt over my emaciated chest - turns out that those necessary fluids hospitals feed you during comas aren't exactly body-building - and went to the corner deli.

While I was standing in line, holding a gallon of milk with my good hand, this thirty-something guy behind me guffawed. He was real slick, I guess; with that sort of Wall Street mogul look, the Armani suit and seven-thousand-dollar sunglasses and all.

"What?" I'd said. "You looking at me?"

"Well, yeah," the guy said, as if this were obvious. "Man, you got an arm missing from your left socket. What happened? You go surfing and a shark bit it off?"

That's actually what he said. _You go surfing and a shark bit it off? _

There were a thousand other encounters after that. Some were adults, others were kids. I preferred the kids. I mean, they might go to their mother and say, "Why doesn't the boy have an arm, Mommy?" but at least they're not old enough to know better.

A couple of weeks after having to ensue all of that drama, I went to the physical therapist and asked what a prosthetic arm would cost. Then, with the help of my mother, I went and I got that stupid arm.

In the very beginning, before I began to feel the loss of everyone I loved, the loss of my arm wasn't the worst thing. I won't lie; it was a pain in the ass, but it was worse with the way people looked at me.

They looked at me like I was scum.

Just for having lost an arm. For something I couldn't even _control. _

So you see, some people just don't deserve to live.

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**I don't call Melanie back.**

I probably should. Deep down, I know that it's not Melanie's fault her supposedly 'sweet' friend Sophie is such an idiot, and I shouldn't take out Sophie's gaffe on her. I know this every time I look at my phone and see that it's Melanie calling yet again, but every time- _every single time - _I just hang up on her.

I don't call Melanie back because I'm afraid of Sophie. That's not it. Well, it is, but in a different sort of way, and not in a way Melanie would even understand. After all, it isn't as if I'm going to call her up and say, "So, seeing as how Sophie looks _exactly _like Annabeth, my old, make-believe girlfriend, I'm kind of attracted to her!" Melanie is _not _the editor of Cosmo; I don't need to call her and tell her that when I saw Sophie, I felt like throwing up… and not because of revulsion.

Well, not at first, anyway. Besides, Melanie doesn't even know Annabeth's make-believe. I told her she was _dead. _

_Why_? _Why am I such a liar?!_

The real reason that I don't call Melanie, though, is because with their catering company, I was someone different. For the first time, I felt myself beginning to live again, to go outside and breathe in some fresh air and listen to voices other than my mom's, Gabe's, and Jimi Hendrix's.

Now, though, that's gone. They know about Annabeth. Well, sort of, anyway.

And so I begin once more to sink into my cloud of depression.

No one seems to notice, not even my mother. It's painful, being around her. I seem to remember two versions of her, the Dream World version - the one who still baked blue chocolate-chip cookies and doesn't have so much gray hair - and the Real World version - the one who cries in the bathroom after Gabe leaves. I don't want to remember my mother as tied down to Gabe. So, try as I might, I just remember her in Dream World, where she's married to Paul, and not so teary.

I do stay out of the house, however. Whenever Gabe finally finishes his customary six-pack of Miller beers, I take the Corvette out and just drive. There's something comforting about having nothing but the road in front of you. If I try, I can almost imagine that it's my Dream World, and I'm on my way to see Annabeth.

During the day, I find other ways to occupy myself. I walk around the city, traveling into Chinatown and laughing at all the tourists scratching their heads and saying, "Well, this damn map is just no good!" I take walks in Central Park.

Once, I even went to the Museum of Natural History. I didn't pay for a ticket; I went a different way than the Main Entrance - the one that only New Yorkers themselves seem to know about - and slipped past the guards. It _was _busy, after all.

I headed straight to the Oceans exhibit. There's this sort of black mat, like the ones they have in those kiddy gymnastics places, right underneath the whale. A bunch of people just sort of sprawl out on the mat and relax there. I don't know why. It's not exactly like it's a designated rest area, or anything. I mean, who goes to relax in the middle of a crowded museum, right underneath a giant blue whale hanging from the ceiling?

But it _was _awfully relaxing. The Oceans exhibit is a double-decker room, full of all of these still-life exhibits. My favorite has always been this exhibit of a life-size sperm whale and a giant squid fighting. As a kid, it always scared me, but I find it sort of interesting as I get older. The exhibit is also dimmed, too, so it's dark. There are these bright camera flashes going off, bright and white, right in the corner of your eye, and this documentary playing on a movie screen a few feet away. A sort of gentle murmur passes through the exhibit- that kind of human undertone that can't really be replicated.

I won't lie. It was nice.

For almost a week, I ambled around New York City. After the fifth day, Melanie stopped calling. I hardly even noticed. I was so wrapped up in trying to escape from home, away from my crying mother, that I didn't even notice that Melanie stopped calling.

On the sixth day, I head over to a cupcake shop. I'd just walked around the Central Park Zoo, and was absolutely famished. I never expected to be ambushed. Really, who expects to be _ambushed _in-between little cupcakes designed as pigs?

But that's exactly what happened.

Because, really, who else should be behind the counter, ringing up cupcakes, but _Sophie Adena?_

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**I don't see Sophie until I'm already at the counter, the order for an extra-large coffee, Coke, and a blueberry cupcake poised on my lips.**

Sophie doesn't see me, either. Her eyes are on the old analog clock mounted above the door of the cupcake shop. The store is a little dilapidated; it looks as if it was built in the sixties and hasn't changed much since then. Without looking at me, she puts up a hand and says, "Look, buddy, I'm sorry, but I'm on break. My replacement will be here in just a sec." She starts untying her apron.

I probably shouldn't have said anything. Stupid as I am, however, I say, astonishedly, "_Sophie?" _

Her head snaps up. Her eyes widen. Then, without another word, she hops over the counter, grabs me by the collar, and walks me over to one of the old, red vinyl seats. "_Ow!" _I cry, swearing violently. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Let me go!"

"Not a chance, pretty boy," Sophie mutters. "You and I are going to have a serious discussion. And you aren't going to move, because if you do, I will hunt you down."

I stare at her. Sophie hasn't changed since I last saw her: the piercings are still the same, her dark, smoky eye makeup is still the same, her eyes are still narrowed. The only difference is her honey-colored hair. It's curly, I note, just like Annabeth's. It drops to her shoulders, framing her pretty face.

"What do you want, Adena?" I snap irritably.

"I want," Sophie says, "to know why you didn't call Melanie back."

I could have told her the truth, of course. Pathological liar that I am, however, I simply lie, "Oh, you know. I've been really busy lately. Lots of… stuff to do."

I should get an acting award. What are they called… Golden globes? Yeah. One of those.

"Right," Sophie snorts. "Now, why don't you tell me why you really didn't call? And what's all this nonsense about your dead girlfriend? Because, really, I don't buy that sob story for a second."

"Oh, my life is _nothing _but a sob story," I say, my cheeks heating up. "Don't you make assumptions! And Annabeth… she's… Well. She's not dead, but she's certainly not here anymore, either."

"Annabeth? That's your girlfriend's name?" Sophie tilts her head. "For real?"

"Yes," I say in-between gritted teeth.

"Hmm," Sophie says. "Pretty. So, this Annabeth. She's my doppelganger?" She grins. "I like it. And what happened where she's not around anymore, huh? She dump you or something?"

I don't know what made me say it. One minute, my mouth was dry, thinking of Annabeth, and the next, I say, "Well, you've clearly got an interest in _my _romantic life. What about you and Jake?"

Her eyebrows lift gracefully. A silver stud through her right eyebrow glints in the morning light filtering through the windows on the shop. "He sleeps around," she says. "I went home with him one night - just to get some work stuff - and he thought I was interested. I wasn't. I slapped him and left his house. Now, your turn. I don't care _what _you say, but it had better be an explanation as to why you aren't calling Melanie back."

"Why do you even care?" I demand.

"Because Mel's my friend," she replies. "And I don't like to see her get hurt."

I snort. "I'm not telling you a thing."

Sophie sighs. "What? Is this some sort of game? Look, Percy, you say your life is a sob story. I get it. I mean, hell, so is mine. But I think you need to get over it. You're acting like a big baby."

"What do _you _know about having a sob story for a life?"

Sophie stares at me. "Percy, when I was eleven years old, my mother took me out to run 'errands' with her. Turns out she was skipping town. She left my brothers and father and home and took me with her. We live in the South Bronx, she drove us all the way to Vegas in her car. Or, at least, she was planning to. My mother was a junkie, Percy. She got so hyped up on drugs that she passed out in the car in Nashville. The police found me and took me home. Without my mother. Why? Because she was dead. She died from a drug overdose right in front of me."

I freeze.

"Look, Percy. I don't know what happened to you, or why you are like you are. But here's a tip: your life isn't the only sob story around. I mean, shit. My parents are junkies. My dad blows all his money from work - when he bothers to go in - on crack. That's why I have, like, five jobs. I have to provide for my two brothers, one of which is eighteen and a drunkard, the other fifteen and on his way to becoming addicted to drugs, just like my parents. I have to work my _ass _off in this job just so I can pay for my older brother to get help." Sophie stares at me, gray eyes blazing. "Mel and Jake's life sucks, too, but that's not my story to tell, so I won't. And I know plenty of other people who have a rough time.

"Here's the secret: everyone has issues. Some are bigger than others. But everybody's got that thing that gnaws at you. The thing where you don't fall asleep at night because you're looking at the bedroom ceiling and silently crying.

"We're all human. We all make mistakes. Now, I don't know about this girlfriend business, or who the hell she is or was. But I do know about _you. _I'm a good judge of character. I'm whip-smart. You're stuck in your own personal pity party. And it's pathetic.

"My advice to you: don't make assumptions about other people's lives. I'm sure that something real bad happened to you, but my life ain't a picnic.

"We play the cards we've been dealt. That's what we do. And Percy, for some reason, Mel is giving you a chance. She seems to like you. So get your head out of your ass and call her back, asking her when the next gig is. Stop being such an _idiot. _And get your act together." Sophie shakes her head in disgust. "Get over Annabeth, whoever she is. Because if you're right in what you say, Annabeth is _gone_. But the rest of us are still here.

"So. The choice is up to you: are you going to say in pity-land, where you think your life is the only bad one? I just disproved that, unless you think having a father constantly hooked on cocaine is any fun, in which case you need to go to a mental institution." Sophie shook her head.

"Call Mel back, Percy. She's the best shot you've got at a life."

Then, without another word, Sophie stood up and walked away, rendering me, for once in my short, pathetic life, utterly speechless.

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**A/N: Hope you all liked it! Please review!**


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